


softly, in pain

by beyondmyreach



Category: Gaze at the Scenes of Debauchery, Original Work
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Established Relationship, Falling Apart, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 11:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondmyreach/pseuds/beyondmyreach
Summary: You feel like you have always known he is cheating on you. You no longer remember when it has started, how many years since your marriage did he start looking the other way, but it has never been about the number, has it? After all, would it hurt any different whether it had been three years or ten before he started coming back every day with another man’s cologne on his person? Would your heart shatter any less when he return with yet another love bite from someone other than you, a lingering satisfied smile that you didn’t put there on his face?There are pains that humans are made to get used to and there are those they are made to never be able to withstand. Love is both.





	softly, in pain

**Author's Note:**

> So this is inspired and based heavily on the web-novel _Gaze at the Scenes of Debauchery_. I liked the concept and the story in the beginning, but then it - in my opinion - got drawn out and unnecessarily complicated and I never read the end. 
> 
> I guess this is my attempt at rewriting it, tagged as Original Work also because I frankly speaking didn't have the web-novel's characters in mind as I wrote it, only the beginning plot, so I didn't want to tag any specific characters to it. 
> 
> Also, as always, thank you [Sou-chan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iheartsenpai/pseuds/iheartsenpai) for reading through the fic, despite this once again being an angst fest. 
> 
> With that said, enjoy!

Being with him is like pressing at a bruise, picking at a scab. It is ill-advised, yet it is so universal, too relatable. Your story with him is one of many, a touching tale of love and sworn forevers, of “I do”s and running away from home and loving despite all oppositions. Of being passionate and young and in love, and of the drifting when the frantic desperation of teenage love ( _infatuation_ ) subsides and all that is left is an empty promise broken on daily basis.

You feel like you have always known he is cheating on you. You no longer remember when it has started, how many years since your marriage did he start looking the other way, but it has never been about the number, has it? After all, would it hurt any different whether it had been three years or ten before he started coming back every day with another man’s cologne on his person? Would your heart shatter any less when he return with yet another love bite from someone other than you, a lingering satisfied smile that you didn’t put there on his face?

It hurt when you first found out what was happening, so much that you thought you were going to die. So much that you contemplated dying, just to make him turn your way one last time. It still hurt the twentieth time he come back from cheating, though not nearly as bad as the first, and these days, not as badly at all. There are pain that humans are made to get used to and there are those they are made to never be able to withstand. Love is both.

You know that you can still withstand the pain if you want, but you find yourself growing numb these days. You find that you don’t want to withstand it anymore, so you don’t.

There is a man at your bookclub that you have befriended, young and sweet and just a bit shy. Exactly his type. You invite him over to your home and when your love comes back, he takes one look at him and it is hook, line, sinker as his eyes darken with lust. Your bookclub friend is sweet, but sweeter under the subtle inviting touches and sideway glances from your lover, and he falls for him, hook, line, sinker.

You pretend not to notice, invite your bookclub friend back when your lover is home, find excuses to leave them alone for long stretches of time, and finally, take a week long trip to another country under the pretense of visiting an old friend during the busiest time of the year for your lover’s company.

“Wait for me?” he asks, circling his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your forehead like he used to, and for a second, you close your eyes and think ‘what if’.

But his voice hold no plea, no sincerity, nothing but words following the script of a doting lover. The implication, of course, is that he would go with you if only the timing isn’t so unfortunate, because he is a good husband like that. The true implication beneath that, of course, is that he is just playing his expected role and nothing else. If anything, you think, his voice hold unbridled excitement, plans already formulating for when the home house husband finally leaves, so you shake your head and smile, play your own caring husband role and persuade him to remain.

He drives you to the airport but regrettably can’t stay any longer to wait with you for the flight. You assure him that it is fine and urges him to go back to his work and attend his company, his mistress on the side, you joke, and he laughs.

“Thank you for being so understanding,” he says, pecking you on the cheek. “Where else can I find such an understanding husband like you?” he says and doesn’t quite joke, and you smile and wrap your arms around his neck like a cobra, drawing him close.

He is breathless when you finally release him, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming with lust and confusion. His pants are tented, you know you would find, if you reach out and touch. Instead, you smile softly and show no hint of discomfort for the PDA that you usually avoid. This time is different, that’s why, this time is -

“Goodbye,” you say, soft and loving, the words lingering for a heartbeat between the two of you. He looks at you, lust overtaken by confusion now, and a part of you want to wait for him and another part don’t want to wait anymore. You take your luggage before he speaks and enter the airport, disappearing into the crowd without another word.

He stares after you for a solid minute after you leave, before shaking his head and pulling out his phone. You watch hidden from the side as he enters his car and drives off in another direction decidedly not his company, then come out of the airport and call a cab.

You go to the apartment you have rented a week prior and unpack your suitcase, settling in before pulling out the paperwork that you have received from your lawyer on your behest. By the end of the third day of the week that you are supposed to be gone, you have already finished filling out the paperwork for a divorce and all you need now is his signature.

You drive back to the house you have lived with him for the past twelve years, thinking that maybe for once he wouldn’t be so predictable, and the unlit light at the entryway gives you hope. Once you open the door and step into the house, however, the panting sounds from the bedroom and the strewn clothes that lead to it prove you are a fool to hope otherwise.

Your lover is a smart and meticulous man. He always cleans after himself, except for when you are there to clean after him, and he is a businessman. He is used to following an agenda and is used to others following theirs.

You follow their trail of clothes, picking them up and draping them across your arm as you do, and the sound of their passion grows louder as you draw closer. They take their time with their pleasure. After all, there is no reason for them to hurry and you suppose there’s no reason for you to hurry them either, so you sit parallel to the bedroom door and lean your head against it, pressing your ears to it like the masochist that you’ve been for the past twelve years, and wait for the sound within to reach its climax with the clothes of the bedroom’s occupants beside you.

You stand when their passions draw close, because your lover of twelve years is nothing if not predictable and likes to clean up after the deed is done.

You are smiling when the door to the bedroom opens and he finds you on the other side. His expression must have been priceless, but you can’t be sure. You can’t see through the film of water that has appear some time during everything in front of your eyes.

You blink rapidly a few times but your vision just continually gets filled up, and finally you ignore it in favor of what you have came for. You slide the clothes you have picked up from the floor on the way to the bedroom off your arm and push them into his.

“Those are yours,” you say, and then shove the divorce paperwork you have brought into the house from the car into his startled hands also. “That too. Sign it and mail it in, would you?”

His hands close around it reflexively and his Adam’s apple bobs, but no sound comes out.

You wonder if you should wait to hear what he has to say, what inventive excuse he would give you this time, but this time you have literally caught him red-handed with his pants down. Just like in the airport, you find that you are sick of waiting for excuses, and what you have always wanted is a promise instead.

“I do,” he had said on the day of your wedding, with nothing else more elaborate than two signatures on a piece of paper and those words, because no one else but you two had wanted this. Back then, you two were so in love and thought you needed nothing else but you both together and that promise.

But over time, you realize, you want more than just that, because he has became greedy and now you are greedy too. You want more than just “I do”, a promise gone stale twelve years after it was made, maybe sooner, much sooner. You also want, need, “I promise I won’t cheat on you ever again. I love only you,” and you have waited and waited and waited, but it never come.

You have waited twelve years and you don’t want to wait anymore. By now, you know it will never come and you don’t need this kind of half-assed forever with only his body and heart sometimes by your side.

You walk away, scrubbing at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand, and just when you are about to step out the door, he finally finds the breath to speak.

He says your name, and you stop.

“Please,” he says, and it isn’t a promise.

It isn’t even an “I’m sorry.”

You walk out.


End file.
